


When Sherlock is Out of Lab Rats

by shnuffeluv



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Attempted Kidnapping, Crack Treated Seriously, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Gen, I should probably say this is slight crack, John tries to be helpful, Kidnapping, Mycroft should know better than to trust him, Parentlock, Sherlock is a rubbish brother, The Other One, Unrepentant Fluff, fluff fluff fluff, he's quite a jerk in this I have to say, kid!mycroft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 10:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3407603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shnuffeluv/pseuds/shnuffeluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whoever thought it was a good idea to leave Sherlock Holmes unattended in Baskerville clearly never met him. With some stolen chemicals on his hands and an annoying brother to take care of, John really should keep a closer eye on Sherlock's antics, and Mycroft should be warier of when Sherlock calls him up. Sherlock in general should be more considerate of others, but let's face it, what are the odds of that happening?<br/>EDIT: On and off hiatus until inspiration strikes. Sorry. =/</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How It Started

**Author's Note:**

> So...this is basically fluffy crack that I wanted to write to take my mind off of the angst of the other stories I have going. Don't try to take it too seriously, it's just supposed to be lighthearted fluff as a release.

Sherlock heard the heavy footfalls up the stairs minutes after John left. _Right on time._ He finished stirring the drinks just as Mycroft climbed the last step to 221B and walked into the kitchen. “What do you want, Sherlock?” he asked.

“I merely wished to let you know I’ve been considering a change in profession. I think that being a barista could be a very interesting experience, and I wanted your opinion on how well my coffee's turning out.”

Mycroft leveled him with a look. “That’s it?”

Sherlock looked up at him completely innocently. “Why, do you think I couldn’t just insult you via text? I can’t send coffee through a phone.”

Mycroft debated the merits of Sherlock’s argument for a minute. “...Fine.”

He and Sherlock both picked up a mug, and Mycroft waited to take a sip before he hazarded one of his own. It was just coffee. Nothing really special about it, except for the fact that Sherlock froze the grounds to bring out a bit of flavor. “The freezing is bringing out some flavor, but you could get the same effect by using higher quality grounds and you wouldn’t have to worry about how much you need to freeze for any given day. I don’t know what case this is for, nor do I want to. Can I go now?”

Sherlock nodded his head towards the door. Mycroft turned and started to walk out before an icy cold fluid sprayed all over him. “SHERLOCK!”

“The motion sensors couldn’t fail twice in a row,” Sherlock grinned. “Knew it would have to work on your way in or out.”

Mycroft was shivering as he turned back to face Sherlock, absolutely livid. Sherlock lazily pointed to the bathroom. “You can use the shower to warm up, I doubt John would even notice you were here.”

“You’re going to pay for this,” Mycroft growled as he made his way into the bathroom and locked it.

It was messy as ever, but there was a small stool by the heater cleared off for someone to heat their clothes while they cleaned themselves. Mycroft placed his clothes there and turned on the hot water tab for the shower. The water was almost too hot for his chilled skin, but he knew that is was hardly warmer than normal, and the pain in his extremities came from slight hypothermia. Not much of a concern.

Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen, looking at a slide under his microscope half-heartedly and listening to the water running in the bathroom. Sherlock estimated 2 minutes or so more until Mycroft realized what was going on, and John should be coming in-“Sherlock?”-any minute now.

“Kitchen,” he said.

“Why’s the water running?”

“Hm? Oh, Mycroft. Apparently he didn’t like my prank very much, and didn’t want to suffer from possible hypothermia.”

John sighed. “Sherlock, you don’t just give your brother hypothermia whenever you want!”

“It’s for an experiment, not because I want to do it.”

“And what is this experiment?” John asked.

The bathroom door opened revealing an irked 4-year-old version of the British Government with a towel wrapped around him like a toga. “I’ll give you 3 guesses, and the first 2 don’t count,” he said with a scowl.

John looked at Mycroft in shock, then turned to Sherlock, then back to Mycroft. “Sherlock, you didn’t by any chance have anything to do with that angry e-mail we got from Baskerville about stolen chemicals?”

Sherlock shrugged and turned back to his microscope. John shook his head and muttered, “I’ll deal with you later.”

After some debating he walked up to Mycroft and knelt down. “Okay...I’m gonna come right out and say I have no idea what Sherlock was trying to achieve. But until he explains himself, there are a few issues to attend to. Like, say, for instance, finding something for you to wear.”

Mycroft held the towel tighter around himself in embarrassment. “I think the chemicals were cold enough that my clothes shrunk by the heater. But they’re still wet.”

John nodded. “Well, then I suppose we need to check to see if you’re physically healthy.”

Mycroft blushed. “I’m not letting you see me naked.”

John sighed. “Mycroft, this is no different from a physical. We’d do it in the bathroom, away from a certain someone who I’ll _yell at later_ ,” he called the last bit over his shoulder. “And by then your clothes should be dry enough to put back on.”

“...Please say there’s another option.”

“We get a complete stranger to do the physical, treat you like a little kid, and maybe give you a lollipop at the end of the whole thing.”

Mycroft shuddered. “Fine. But do it quickly.”

John ushered him into the bathroom and closed the door after he walked in. “Drop the towel,” he said.

Mycroft did so reluctantly. “Never speak of this again, all right?”

“Well, you have doctor-patient confidentiality now. I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to.”

The physical was quick, and when John went to check Mycroft’s clothes, he found they were dry and slightly warm. However the clothes, while shrunken, were still a bit too big for the 4-year-old standing in front of John. Even with the last stubborn remains of baby fat clinging to his body, the suit was too large for him to fit into it well. It hung loosely on his frame and the sleeves and pant legs dragged and bunched. Mycroft scowled at the clothes as if that would shrink them. “I’m gonna kill him,” he said with conviction. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“Maybe after we figure out what happened to you, yeah?”

Mycroft huffed but nodded, and John didn’t fail to notice a quick swipe to the eyes. “It’ll be fine, all right? We’ll find a way to fix this.”

“I know. You don’t have to treat me like a little kid, you know.”

John tried not to laugh at the irony of that statement. “Yeah, I know. Now can you walk in that without tripping, or would you rather be carried to play it on the safe side?”

Mycroft sent him a withering glare, which would have been more threatening were the glare not made by four-year-old features. He took one step and promptly tripped over his own pants. John helped him stand back up with a chuckle. Mycroft pulled back from John’s grip. “Don’t laugh!”

Sherlock opened the bathroom door. “Why? Given your current state it is quite hilarious.” He held up a hand holding a miniature suit and a pair of underwear, perfect for a 4-year-old. “Hope you don’t mind I planned for you to shrink beyond the point you could wear your current suit and got you this one in advance. Surprised you didn’t suspect anything, given the type of security you have on me and John.” He tossed it in with a, “Here, fatty.”

Mycroft stuck his tongue out at Sherlock’s retreating form and John to his credit pretended not to notice the hurt look Mycroft got when Sherlock insulted him. When Mycroft was now clothed in a suit that fit, John stood up and let out a sigh. “Well, do you want to start the interrogation, or should I?”


	2. Doctor Who During Dinner

Sherlock was curled into his chair in the living room when John and Mycroft walked out of the bathroom. Mycroft migrated to the couch for once. He pulled the blanket that John had laid on Sherlock last night when he was in his Mind Palace and wrapped it around himself as John went to sit in his armchair with just a hint of surprise. Sherlock took a long look at Mycroft for the first time. He looked a lot like in his baby pictures; the same blond-ginger curls and the same baby fat staying on as long as it could before he could run it off when he was around 5 and wanted to stop being teased in kindergarten. His eyes were a gunmetal blue that pierced like ice wherever he was focusing his attention. Though at the moment he didn’t seem to be focusing on much of anything except the blanket he’d pulled around himself. “You’re hair is oddly light,” he said.

Mycroft looked up at him and glared. “You’re one to talk,” he said. “Remember why Mummy insisted you be called ‘Sherlock’?”

John looked between the two in confusion.

“Sherlock means ‘light hair’,” Mycroft supplied. “Sherlock was blond for...I’d say about a year. Then his hair got progressively darker. Everyone kept doing double takes when his hair turned completely black.” He went back to staring at the blanket like he’d never said anything.

The silence settled over all three for a while before John said, “So, plan to explain yourself?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I saw the scientists at Baskerville were having a hard time figuring out how to make one of the solutions work, but cooling it somewhat had better effects. I simply borrowed one of the scientists notes and some of the chemicals as a springboard. Then I stuck it in the freezer before rigging it to go off the second someone walked through the door to the kitchen. And it worked!” he finished proudly.

John took a deep breath. “And you did this on Mycroft because…?”

“I was out of lab rats.”

Mycroft flinched. Did he really need to sound so indifferent about it?

“Not a good enough reason.”

“Oh, relax. You saw him for yourself, no harm done.”

Mycroft pulled the blanket over his head and bit his lip. No harm done? Really?! This wasn’t a “no harm done” scenario, this was way beyond even “a bit not good”. This was a disaster!

The two argued a bit more before it got quiet. Mycroft didn’t dare lift the blanket off his head, he just closed his eyes and regulated his breathing like he was asleep. John lifted the blanket and didn’t say anything. “When he wakes up he’s probably gonna be hungry. Go out and get something edible that a child would like. Like chicken nuggets, or something.”

“Why do I have to do it?”

“Your mess, your responsibility. I just live here.”

Sherlock grumbled but walked out.

“I know you’re awake, Mycroft.”

Mycroft opened his eyes. “He can’t say things like that.”

“No, he can’t,” John said. “But whenever I try to tell him that, he doesn’t listen. Are you hungry? It’s almost 7.”

Mycroft shrugged. “A little…”

John turned and went to the kitchen, finding nothing even remotely edible. “Good thing I sent Sherlock out, then, I don’t see anything here.”

He went back over to the couch and sat next to Mycroft. “Anything you want to do, then?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I just want to go home-which I know can’t happen, don’t rub it in-to catch up on _Doctor Who_.”

“Oh, I TiVo that every week. I probably have about half the season saved.”

Mycroft looked up at him. “So...you’d have _The Power of Three?”_

John turned on the TV and pulled up the recorded episodes. “Let’s see...yeah, here we are.”

“Play it,” Mycroft said with a hint of manic glee in his voice.

John complied and soon both of them were so into the episode they didn’t notice Sherlock come in. When the episode ended Mycroft sank into the couch before fangirling into a pillow. John looked at him in amusement. Sherlock looked like Mycroft may as well have just grown a second head. He then turned and walked to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. “That should’ve gotten rid of him for a few hours,” Mycroft grinned. “Wanna watch another?”

John shrugged. “Maybe. Dinner first?”

Mycroft sighed. “Fine. But one more after that, at least.”

“At least,” John agreed, going into the kitchen. “Looks like Sherlock brought back bread and some things for sandwiches. That okay?”

“Ham and cheese, no mayo,” Mycroft said absent-mindedly. “Never could not eat that if someone put it in front of me.”

John came back in 5 minutes later with two ham and cheese sandwiches, one with and one without mayonnaise. “Seriously? You don’t like mayonnaise?”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose as he looked at John. “You do? That stuff is disgusting.”

John rolled his eyes. “Just eat the sandwich. I’ll put on the next episode of _Doctor Who_.” He took a look at the next episode, then glanced at the time. “Or...maybe not.”

“What? Why not?” Mycroft whined.

“ _The Angels Take Manhatten_ ,” John read.

“...Yeah?”

“Mycroft, the Weeping Angels.”

“Yeah. What’s your point?”

“It’s almost 7. By the time the episode finishes, it’ll be dark.”

“Come on, it’s not like they’re that scary.”

John sighed. “Well, it’s never boded well for me.” He tried to find a reason that Mycroft would accept beyond the fact John was worried about how his new found body might react to the episode. “We could watch another one, or just wait until tomorrow.”

“No.”

John sighed. “If you do freak out…”

“I won’t.”

“But if you do, don’t bother me about it. If anyone, bother Sherlock.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “No, duh. Now play the episode already!”

John huffed and played it. At the end of the episode, John looked over at the shell-shocked boy next to him and found that he had actually eaten unlike another Holmes he had to deal with. John patted Mycroft on the shoulder as he picked up the plates. Mycroft snapped back to the present with a jump. “John?” he called.

“I told you if the episode was too much to bother Sherlock.”

“It’s not that. Where am I going to sleep?”

John turned back to Mycroft and paused. “I...actually don’t know.”

Mycroft looked at him with a look that seemed to be a cross between _Am I surrounded by idiots?_ and _How is this ever possibly going to work out well?_ that made John almost feel pity on Mycroft for being at the whims of his mental younger brother. John left the plates in the sink and knelt down to Mycroft’s level. “Is there anything you can think of that could help this? I mean, besides getting back to normal, since that can’t happen yet. But...anything you can think of to make this easier?”

He belatedly realized he was using the voice he used on little kids who came into the clinic who were half-scared out of their minds, but if it bothered Mycroft being treated like a child, he didn’t show it. He thought about it a minute, before saying slowly, “There was one thing...but it’s stupid.”

“Come on,” John coaxed. “Anything that could help with any of this.”

“...My favorite book to read for the longest time was a collection of the legends about King Arthur. It...I don’t know...just seemed like a good way to escape.” He blushed. “I told you it was stupid.”

“That’s not stupid,” John said. “I don’t think we have that here, but maybe tomorrow we could go out and get it.”

Mycroft grinned despite himself. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, we’re probably going to have to get you some more clothes at any rate, while we’re out we may as well find it.”

“...Thank you…”

John smiled and ruffled Mycroft’s hair. “No problem. Now get some sleep. We can figure out how this is going to work in the morning, I hope you’re okay with the couch for a night.”

Mycroft nodded. “But I’m not tired, though.”

“Your yawning for the past half-hour begs to differ, mate.”

“I resent that…” Mycroft drifted off against the rest on the couch and John laughed quietly.

He grabbed the blanket and pulled it up over Mycroft, heading to Sherlock’s room to get some yelling over and done with. The sooner things came to light, the sooner they could get this whole situation fixed.


	3. Getting Sick

Sherlock came out of his room in the middle of the night to do some research on his laptop when he saw Mycroft shivering on the couch. He went over and put a wrist to Mycroft’s forehead. It was hot. Too hot. Mycroft lazily opened his eyes at Sherlock’s touch and recoiled. “Y-You’re wr-wrists c-cold…” he muttered.

“Myc, can you focus on me?” Sherlock murmured.

Mycroft did so with some difficulty. “Wh’t time ‘sit?” he slurred.

“I’d say about 3 in the morning. You’re burning up.”

Mycroft pulled the blanket he was under closer around him. “‘M _freezing_...Can’t be too hot.”

“I’m getting John, stay here,” Sherlock instructed.

“Where would I go?” Mycroft asked.

“...Fair point.”

Sherlock ran up the stairs to John’s room and shook him awake. “John. John, wake up.”

John rolled over to face Sherlock with one eye cracked open. “What’s wrong this time, Sherlock?”

“It’s Mycroft.”

“Listen, if you’re having trouble with him, you shouldn’t have tried that stupid experiment in the first place…”

“He has a fever and I don’t know what to do.”

John sat up and groaned. “Have you taken his temperature yet?”

“Not yet, but I can tell it’s high, and he says that he feels like he’s freezing. What do I do?”

“Well, first, take his temperature using a thermometer to find out how bad it actually is.” John pulled a face. “Actually, he might just have a bit of food poisoning. I don’t think that sandwich is agreeing with me, I can only imagine what it might do to a child. Give me 5 minutes, I’ll be downstairs soon enough.”

Sherlock nodded and went downstairs, and John sat up on the edge of his bed, fighting back a nasty wave of nausea. The ham must not have been treated correctly. He stood up, stretching, and shuffled downstairs, to find Sherlock hovering over Mycroft, holding a trashcan just in case. John came closer and saw Mycroft was covered in sweat and shivering. John looked up at Sherlock and he said, “I tried to get him to hold the thermometer, but he threw up before it could register.”

“Right. I’m never trusting you to buy perishables again.” John knelt down. “Mycroft? You awake?”

“Sadly,” he groaned.

“Can you open your eyes for me?”

He reluctantly did so. “Well, I don’t think you have food poisoning,” he said. “You probably wouldn’t get this sick, or at least not without me being right there with you. Have you been feeling under the weather at all lately?”

Mycroft shivered. “Th-thought my flu shot didn’t t-take last week...f-felt a little s-s-sick...but I felt better th-the same d-day.”

John sighed. “I think your flu shot took a bit too well. Sometimes when your body can’t fight off one of the strains, you’ll get sick anyway. I’m guessing your body was probably having a hard time fighting one of the strains and then when this happened, all of a sudden the virus had less space to travel through to get you sick and less antibodies to fight off. You’ll be okay within a few days.”

Mycroft coughed hard a few times before throwing up again. “I don’t want to feel better in a f-few days, I want to f-feel better _now_.”

“Listen, I’ll go to Tesco’s and get some Children’s Tylenol to see if that’ll help you sleep, all right?”

Mycroft groaned softly but nodded. “Hurry,” he mumbled.

John nodded and mouthed to Sherlock _s_ _tay with him_ before rushing out to get the Tylenol.

While John was gone Sherlock sat down cross-legged on the floor and moved the trashcan away from the sofa. He noticed Mycroft was still shivering and Sherlock picked him up. “Wh--”

“Shh.” Sherlock hushed him. “You’re still shivering. You need to stop.”

Mycroft tried to find a way to argue against essentially being cuddled, but Sherlock felt warmer than the couch and when the blanket was draped over him again, his shivering became barely more than a tremble for the first time all night. “‘M tired…”

“Then sleep. If you wake up again tonight you can have the medicine then, but if you can sleep without it, I see no reason to give it to you.”

“Sh’lock…”

“What?”

“Shut up, I wanna sleep.”

Sherlock laughed but complied. When John came back 20 minutes later he found Sherlock asleep sitting up with Mycroft curled into a ball in his lap. He couldn’t help but take a picture. “This one’s going in the album,” he chuckled to himself. “I’ll have to back it up somewhere where it can’t be deleted.”


	4. Need for Supplies and Information

Mycroft woke up at around dawn in Sherlock’s lap and started shivering as he sat up, letting all the warm air leak out from under the blanket. He looked around at where he was and looked up at whose lap he was sleeping in, gave a mental shrug and curled up back in Sherlock’s lap. Really, he was too sick to be bothered about much of anything. Except he noticed with a twinge of regret he had gotten a bit of sick on his shirt. He’d have to change at some point. But not now, when it was still cold and he was in a fevered half-daze. He’d get up later. He felt a cool wrist on his forehead again. “What d’you want, Sherlock?”

“To make sure you’re okay,” Sherlock said simply.

Mycroft waved him off. “Tired. Cold. But I’ll live.”

Sherlock looked down curiously at his brother. “You missed the trashcan a bit last night,” he noted.

“I’ll change later…” Mycroft trailed off.

“You never let yourself look messy, ever.”

“Yeah, well, have you ever seen me really sick before?”

“...I can’t actually think of a time when you got really sick.”

“Well there you go. Now will you shut up and let me sleep?”

Sherlock pulled Mycroft into a sort of cradling position and stood up. “Nope. You need to change.”

Mycroft groaned. “Do it when I’m not sick. Right now it’d defeat the purpose.”

“Why, feel like you’re going to puke again?”

“No, I’m freezing. And stop carrying me.”

“No.” Sherlock carried Mycroft into his room and set the boy down on his bed. “I have a pair of pajamas in here somewhere, I think...ah! Here they are.”

He turned around with a pair of plain light blue pajamas, that actually looked really warm. Though Mycroft wasn’t particularly happy when Sherlock insisted on changing Mycroft instead of letting him do it himself. Still, within a few minutes both of them were out in the living room again. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa with Mycroft on his lap, every once in a while idly trying to get off, but not trying very hard. Sherlock put a hand on Mycroft’s head to get his attention. “Do you want to go out?”

“Not really. I feel like crap,” he muttered back.

“Watch your language, you know Mummy hates it when you curse,” Sherlock teased.

“Shut up. I’m older than you.”

“Not really, no.”

“Sherlock…”

“Seriously, though, do you want to go out? I imagine you’ll need another set of clothes, at least.”

“You just need to know if the clothes will actually fit, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go, on one condition.”

Sherlock looked down. “What condition is that?”

“We go to a bookstore and get something I can read to while away the hours while you fix this mess.”

“You and I both know right now you’ll get _King Arthur_.”

“Problem with that?”

“No, but you could just ask if you want it. Or if you want someone to read it for you,” Mycroft snorted at that, “While you're sick, you might prefer that. Though you look much better than you did last night.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Yeah, not getting sick will do that.”

“I’ll see if I can find where I hid those shoes,” Sherlock got up before a thought occurred to him, and he turned to look at Mycroft curiously. He opened his mouth to say something, then shook his head and continued to his room.

As soon as he was in his room, he pulled out his phone and he pulled up his mother’s number. _Quick question, sorry about it being early, what was Myc like as a_ really _little kid?_

He got an answer 5 minutes later. _Don’t worry, dear, you didn’t wake me up. He was a lot like he is now, if memory serves. Always liked to act like he was older than he was. Sometimes it was cute, sometimes it was just a nightmare. Dare I ask why?_

_Just curious._

_Oh, and thanks._ Sherlock sent the second text as an afterthought and sighed. He was a little worried about whether or not the chemicals actually messed up brain function, now he knew that they did, even if he didn’t know how much. He was glad he didn’t try anything on himself yet, he would never be able to live down his 4-year-old self interacting with John. If Mycroft had his memories and his will to act like an adult even if he felt like a kid, logically he could pass for a normal version of himself. _Great._ He really was taking care of a 4-year-old. He found the shoes and walked out, making sure his face didn’t show the sudden dread he was feeling. Mycroft slipped on the shoes but looked confused. “There’s no laces?”

“It’s velcro,” Sherlock said.

“Oh. I knew that.” He nodded to himself. “Just a bit tired, I guess.”

 _Did Mycroft even realize what happened to him mentally?_ Sherlock thought to himself. When Mycroft had secured the shoes Sherlock picked him up and balanced him on his hip. “Hey! I can walk, Sherlock!”

“You’re also sick and need to save some energy. I’ll carry you until we reach the shops, and I’ll carry you back when we’re done. You can tear across the ground in between, all right?”

Mycroft groaned. “Fiiiiine…”

“All right,” Sherlock said as he grabbed his coat and draped it over both of them. “Let’s see how long it takes before we give John a heart attack.”


	5. Out Shopping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I wasn't going to post any more of this, and then I read some of the stuff I wrote for it ages ago and thought it wasn't as bad as I remembered, and decided to maybe pick it up again. Let me know what you think, if you wish! ^-^

Sherlock, true to his word, set Mycroft down the moment they walked into the clothes store. Mycroft took one look around at how huge everything looked from where he was standing and quietly asked, “Can I be carried again?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Just hold my hand. If I had to carry you around the entire day, my arm might fall off.”

Mycroft grabbed Sherlock’s hand and together they found the children’s section, thankfully empty at this time in the morning. Sherlock wrestled his hand out of Mycroft’s grip. “Okay, if you see something you like, bring it over to me and we’ll see if it fits you,” he said.

“I...Okay…” Mycroft walked off slowly and ducked through a rack of jeans and wandered around until he found... _shudder_...the little kid’s section. He found a shelf filled with shirts and climbed onto the bottom shelf to get a better look at the shirts more his size. Honestly, who thought it would be a good idea to put the smaller sizes higher up on the shelf? “Hello, what’s this?” he asked himself, finding a small dark green polo shirt that reminded him of the one he had back at his house.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing up there?” Mycroft turned to see a woman walking up to him with a girl not that much older than him perched on her arm. “Get down!”

Mycroft jumped off easily and the woman looked like she might faint or burst a blood vessel. Possibly both. The girl looked at him apologetically as if she knew what was about to happen but wished that for once it wouldn’t. “Where’s your mother or father, hm? Didn’t they teach you not to climb over everything like that?!”

He didn’t say anything. He figured this whole thing would probably go over faster if he just let her yell at him for a few minutes and then walk away.

“Well?”

Mycroft shook his head. “S-sorry?”

“Where are your parents?!”

“Dunno. But Sherlock’s-” he turned around. Sherlock was no where to be found. Where could he have gone? Did Mycroft really go that far into the store? “Right...here?”

This wasn’t good. The woman grabbed his arm and started dragging him away. “I’m taking you to one of the store clerks. Hopefully they’ll hand you over to the police and put you in a cell to teach you a lesson!”

“Let go! You’re hurting me!” Mycroft struggled fruitlessly against the woman’s iron grip.

“Oh, I’m sure that’s what you tell everyone who ever tries to teach you a lesson!”

The girl looked over at him and whispered. “I’m sorry. There’s no stopping her once she’s set her mind on something.”

Mycroft tried to wrestle his wrist out of her grip. “SHERLOCK!” he called. “SHERLOCK!”

“Be quiet!”

Mycroft snapped his mouth shut. He could tell going against this woman would only result in more pain on his part. The girl looked over at him and smiled weakly, like she was trying too hard to say a rehearsed line with feeling. “She means well, really. As far as foster moms go, she’s the best I can remember having.”

“Quiet, Belle! Don’t let this boy give you any ideas!”

Mycroft looked around wildly. Where had Sherlock gone? He had to be around here somewhere. His voice hurt from screaming, but he was pretty sure he could get out one more cry before the woman forcibly shut him up. He took in a deep breath and screamed at the top of his lungs, “SHERLOCK!!!”

The woman slapped him. “I told you to be quiet!” she hissed.

Suddenly her arm was forcibly ripped from his. The smell of Sherlock’s coat overwhelmed him and he turned around and started crying into Sherlock’s pant leg. Sherlock placed one hand on Mycroft’s head reassuringly and stared at the woman in a cold sort of fury. “Who are you and what exactly were you planning to do with my nephew?”

The woman looked at him, slightly less intimidating when faced with Sherlock. “Did you know that your nephew was climbing on top of the displays here?!”

Sherlock regarded her cooly. “I was giving him the chance to choose his own clothes, since he was feeling a bit under the weather and needed a fresh pair of day clothes that he hadn’t recently gotten sick on. Now. What. Were. You. Going. To. Do. With. Him?”

The woman started to answer, but Sherlock became preoccupied with a red hand-print blossoming on Mycroft’s cheek. “You hit my nephew?”

“She slapped him, technically,” Belle whispered. Sherlock still heard it.

“You slapped a child you didn’t even _know,”_ Sherlock fumed. “Because you...what? Thought he was going to steal something? Because he was trying to reach the clothes his own size? Because he was trying to make sure he was _safe_ since he didn’t know who you _were,_ much less whether or not you would hurt him or not?”

The woman was cowering away from Sherlock now. A sales clerk noticed the scene and walked over. “Is everything all right here?”

“No, everything is _not_ all right!” Sherlock said. “This woman tried to take my nephew away from me because I let him walk around for 5 minutes to let him help pick out his own clothes, and she physically assaulted him when he tried to get back to me.”

The clerk’s eyes widened. “Sir, that’s a serious allegation. Do you have any proof?”

Sherlock looked down at Mycroft. “Myc, can you show the clerk your face, please?”

Mycroft took a step back from Sherlock’s legs slowly, still gripping the pant leg, and showed the clerk his face, now effectively half-red. The clerk stood up and said, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

“I will do no such thing!” the woman looked affronted. “This child was climbing on the display shelves! These two are the ones who need to leave.”

“While climbing around on the shelves is frowned upon, since we can’t tell whether or not they’ll hold the child’s weight, trying to take that child away from their guardian is far more serious. Now please, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

The woman huffed. “I’ll leave on my own. And see if I ever come here again! Let’s go, Belle.”

The two left. The clerk sighed. “I have a description, I’ll let the police know, if you’d like to file a complaint.”

“Did you see what the girl looked like?” Mycroft asked.

The clerk looked down at him. “Yeah. Why, did she hurt you too?”

Mycroft shook his head. “N-no...I think the lady took her too. She said the lady was her foster mom, but it looked like she was lying,” he did his best to measure out his speech to sound more like a scared child’s than it would otherwise, despite still being pretty shaken up anyway.

The clerk nodded and said, “I’ll call the police right away,” before rushing off.

When she was gone, Sherlock gave Mycroft a quick once over. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, just startled...and my wrist hurts a bit. I think it’s bruised.”

Sherlock inspected the offered wrist and winced when he saw purple finger marks all over it. “You should be okay, but I get why it would hurt. Do you really think that girl was kidnapped?”

Mycroft nodded. “...Sherlock?”

“Yeah?”

“S-s-sorry…for almost getting kidnapped.” Mycroft looked on the verge of tears again. “I shouldn’t’ve been climbing around on the shelves, I just wanted to get a better look, but then the woman came up and I jumped off the shelf and she got mad, and this never would’ve happened if I just stayed on the floor like she wanted me too…” he kept speaking faster and faster until he started to cry again.

Sherlock shushed him. “None of this is your fault. It’s that lady’s, for thinking that she should be allowed to punish any kid she catches doing something wrong. Listen, let’s get you a set or two of clothes, and then how about we go to the bookstore, yeah? After all this, you deserve at least _two_ books.”

Mycroft laughed through his tears. “Two? Really?”

“Yeah. We can get you two books at least, and then maybe we can get breakfast after, if you’re up for it. Then we can go home and tell John about it, because he’ll probably want to know, and then after that you can read or watch _Doctor Who_ or do whatever you want. You deserve it.”

Mycroft grinned. “Okay.”

Sherlock smiled back at him. “I found a shirt in the middle of the floor. I take it that was one of your choices?”

“Yeah…”

“Okay, so we have one shirt. I’d say one more shirt and two pairs of pants should do it. Oh, maybe some socks.”

“Yeah, being barefoot in shoes is a weird sensation.”

And just like that, the little scene was over, and Sherlock was holding Mycroft’s hand as they walked around picking out clothes. In reality they got three different outfits and another set of pajamas rather than just finishing one outfit and getting another. When they went to the check-out, the clerk from earlier asked what Sherlock’s number was so she could call him if the police found the woman. Sherlock gave it to her, but other than that it was like the whole thing never happened. They walked out of the shop and went to a bookstore two shops down. The name was a bit odd, (who would name a store _Something Old, Something New?)_ but despite what it sounded like there were new books as well as old, and Mycroft quickly found a collection of _King Arthur_ and was now looking around, trying to figure out what else caught his eye. Eventually he found a book in the back corner of the children’s section, called _Festival of Death_. Sounded cheery. It was a _Doctor Who_ book about the 4th Doctor, Romana, and K-9. He grinned. That was probably his favorite era of the series, if he had to choose one. Of course, there was also the Sarah Jane times to think about, and who could forget when she was there for _Genesis of the Daleks?_ Still, if he had to choose an era, this one would be up there. He turned around and his heart nearly stopped when he didn’t immediately see Sherlock, but then he found that familiar Belstaff coat not 15 feet away speaking into a phone. He hung up, and walked over to Mycroft. “Find anything good?”

“Yeah! Did you know there’s actually a book where the Doctor saves the day by dying? But it’s only in his 4th regeneration! Which leads me to wonder whether it’s on a different timeline or if there’s some sort of paradox like with the crack in the wall? But if something from the books is causing something in the show, usually it’s not something that big, it’s just a reference or two, so--”

“Mycroft if you keep talking like that much longer I’m going to get a headache.”

He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I just really like _Doctor Who_.”

“I gathered,” Sherlock said wryly. “I was talking to John on the phone and he wanted to meet us across the street for breakfast.”

“Did he have a heart attack?”

“He was worried when we were gone, when I told him about the incident, I think he just might have.”

Mycroft laughed. “I wish I could’ve seen his face when you told him.”

Sherlock chuckled. “I think he was about to kill me.” He paid for the books and they walked out. “You seem to be feeling a whole lot better.”

“Getting kidnapped made me forget to be sick,” Mycroft smirked.

“Well just know that if you start feeling sick again, I will personally finish off your breakfast for you.”

“Dream on!” Mycroft laughed.


	6. Breakfast and Revelations

Sherlock and Mycroft were sitting down in a café across the street and ordering what they wanted, (the waitress was laughing at Mycroft’s excited face when Sherlock let him have a whole stack of pancakes if he wanted) when John rushed in and over to them asking Mycroft, “Are you okay?! What happened?”

Sherlock looked up to him and gestured to the last chair at the table. “We’re both fine.”

John sat down heavily and when the waitress came back he ordered a strong cup of coffee and a bagel. Mycroft was rolling his pancakes into burritos with syrup in the middle and eating them like that. “Seriously, what happened?”

Mycroft swallowed a huge bite of pancake and said, “I met this nutter lady at the clothes store who thought it was a good idea to slap me for trying to pick out my own clothes. Oh, and she also kidnapped this other girl.”

“And you’re fine with that? You’re not scarred for life or anything?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m worried about Belle, though.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine. She lived without you there, loverboy,” Sherlock dismissed.

Mycroft blushed. “I don’t _like_ her, Sherlock! That’d just be gross!”

It was at this point the waitress decided to walk over. “I had a son that age once too, trust me, you’ll miss it when it’s gone,” she said conspiratorially to John.

“Oh, he’s not my son,” John said. “I’m making sure this one doesn’t blow him up until his parents can get here.”

“He’s my nephew,” Sherlock said disinterestedly.

Mycroft listened to the conversation, not saying anything until the waitress was gone. “What do you mean, ‘Until his parents can get here’?”

John looked surprised. “You mean you didn’t know? Your mum called earlier, something about Sherlock acting suspicious about something. She said she called you, Sherlock,” John turned to his infuriating flatmate.

“Must have gone to voicemail. And then accidentally been deleted.”

“All 5 calls?”

Mycroft snickered. He had finished all the pancakes and was starting to feel the sugar buzz set in. John didn’t fail to notice this, though Sherlock was preoccupied with a text on his phone. “They found her,” he said, standing up.

Mycroft and John got up as well and followed Sherlock out. Soon they were exiting a cab at NSY to a very loud scene in the lobby. The woman from earlier was fighting two officers bodily, despite being handcuffed. Belle was watching the scene with a mix of fear and excitement, holding Lestrade’s hand in a corner. Mycroft went over to her. “Hey again,” he said.

She looked over to him and smiled. “Oh! It’s you! I wasn’t sure if I’d see you again!”

Mycroft blushed. “Yeah, well, Sherlock’s out for blood, and he has to watch me, so…”

Lestrade looked at him curiously. Belle continued to talk to him. “So when you say Sherlock, do you mean Sherlock Holmes? Like, the detective?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yeah. Though don’t believe him when he tells you he’s the smartest person in the world.”

“Oh, yeah? Then who’s the smartest person in the world if it isn’t him?”

“Me,” Mycroft said with a smirk.

Belle shoved him. “Shut up,” she giggled. “I’m at least twice as smart as you, I’ll bet.”

“How d’you figure that?” This conversation was getting dangerously close to flirting.

“‘Cause I’m a girl. Girls are always smarter than boys.”

“Are not!”

“Are too!”

Lestrade waved a hand in front of their faces to catch their attention. They looked at him, slightly irritated their arguing was cut short. “Mycroft?” he asked, uncertain.

“What?” Mycroft asked, completely aware of the Detective Inspector’s confusion and deciding to have some fun with it.

“You’re...um...well, you’re...a-a kid?”

“Well, yeah,” Mycroft had to muster all his self-control not to laugh at the look of pure confusion and fear that met his blank, innocent stare. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Lestrade started to choke on his own air and Mycroft couldn’t hold in his laughter anymore. He laughed so hard he actually fell to the floor and even then couldn’t stop laughing long enough to register the pain. Belle looked at him amused.

Sherlock walked over and slung Mycroft over his shoulder. “Sorry, he’s on a bit of a sugar high.”

Lestrade just continued to stare. “Is that really…? I mean really? H...how?!”

Sherlock shrugged. “Baskerville has managed some amazing things.”

“Clearly. Is this...the woman from earlier?”

Sherlock glanced over at her and nodded. “She slapped him,” he said. “I have half a mind to let her ‘fall’ out a window.”

Lestrade held up a hand. “Let’s not get carried away. We just needed your confirmation. We can take it from here.”

Sherlock nodded and started to turn away, when Belle said quietly, “Excuse me, Mr. Holmes?”

“What?” Sherlock said, looking down at her.

“Did you say something about Baskerville?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, now guarded. “What do you know about it?”

“I’ve been there. I used to be 36. Now I’m 5 and a half. That woman,” she nodded in the direction of her fake foster-mom, “Did it to me.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have my Internet back, guys! And I have an update that's actually usable! Yay! Enjoy!

John, Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Belle were all in Lestrade’s office upstairs. The news that Mycroft wasn’t the only one who’d been shrunk had shocked everyone except Mycroft himself, who at this point just really, really needed to pee. Sherlock had been trying to keep him in the room for as long as possible, but John took pity on him and made Sherlock let him go. As soon as John and Mycroft were gone, Belle asked, “So I take it he went through the same thing I did?”

“More or less,” Sherlock said, recalling the rather unscientific system he developed to get Mycroft to actually come in contact with the formula.

Belle winced. “Poor bloke. Couldn’t have been fun.”

“What exactly happens? I didn’t get to actually see the regression. I was in another room,” Sherlock asked.

“It’s awful. It’s like all your bones and organs shrink and you get all lightheaded and everything tingles and hurts like you’re warming up from coming in outside and all the extra unneeded tissue just sort of melts off your body like candle wax. It’s a whole lot easier to shove the memory down and not think about it than it is to act how you were before the whole ordeal.” Just talking about it, Belle turned pale and slightly green.

“Is it possible to reverse the effect?” Lestrade asked, acknowledging that Mycroft wouldn’t have tried anything like his prank earlier if he were his old self, and that it might be a good idea to get him back, no matter what the consequences.

“I...yeah, but it’s not pleasant, and it happens automatically on the change back, since you retain all your memories and it’s really just a change in brain chemistry.”

Sherlock stored this information for later as John walked back in with Mycroft, who blushed again at the sight of Belle. She smiled at him and Mycroft became fascinated with the edge of his pajama sleeves. John looked at Lestrade and raised his eyebrows like he was saying _C_ _an you believe it? He’s smitten!_ Lestrade just smirked back as if to say _I’m never letting this go!_

Belle moved real close to Mycroft and whispered something in his ear. Mycroft turned redder, if that was physically possible. Belle laughed at him. Mycroft looked up at her, indignant, and she just stuck her tongue out at him while smiling. He looked like he was about to argue something, then sighed and grabbed her hand, pulling her down so he could kiss her on the cheek before hiding behind John and saying, “I wanna go back to Baker Street now.”

Everyone looked at him a little shocked, even Belle. He stuck his head out from behind John’s leg and said, “There you go,” before going back to hiding.

John eventually just sighed and picked him up, if only to make sure other people could see he was still there, and Sherlock looked down to Belle. “Do you know the technicalities of the formula?”

Belle nodded.

“Then would it be possible for you to come back to Baker Street with us to try and devise a reversal?”

“No!” Mycroft said at the exact time Belle shrugged with a “Probably.” She looked up at Mycroft and grinned at him, sending him to duck for cover in the crook of John’s shoulder. Sherlock actually started _laughing_ at the sight. Lestrade led all of them out of his office, hoping for a little peace before everything started blowing up in his face, like it always did when he helped Sherlock. Plus, he wanted to make sure none of them found out he was taking these few minutes from the security cameras and saving it to his phone. That wouldn’t do at all.

During the time it took for Sherlock to hail them a cab outside NSY, Mycroft had fallen asleep on John’s shoulder from sheer exhaustion. He woke up some time during the cab ride, as everyone found out when he decided to stop silently looking around and asked, “Is that Mummy standing outside 221?”

Everyone jumped, but Sherlock the most out of all of them, knowing that if their parents were here this fast, he was going to be in some kind of trouble really soon. As the cab slowed and Sherlock got out, leaving John to pay, he briefly contemplated making a break for it, but quickly dismissed the idea. He was just going to have to deal with whatever onslaught he was about to face head-on. After all, he was the only one who knew how to undo the knot on the bag holding Mycroft’s new clothes.


	8. Chapter 8

All things considered, the onslaught Sherlock received wasn’t too bad, it was basically like John’s your problem, you fix it policy. Mycroft had been successfully changed into a short-sleeved polo shirt and jeans, and was holding his new Doctor Who book tightly as he tried to explain to Belle the higher mechanics of time as described in the series. She however was preoccupied with Mycroft’s emphatic gestures and excitement to really understand what he was describing. It was sweet, the way she was humoring him and nodding at all the right moments and generally just making sure he knew someone was listening. He was sitting in just one spot rather than moving around, which Sherlock hoped meant the sugar and the adrenaline were wearing off. He looked over at the clock and saw that it was about 10. His parents were discussing how everything should unfold, and who Mycroft should stay with, and things like that. John seemed to be interested in Belle, muttering to himself about how he knew her from somewhere. Sherlock was mostly concerned about fixing this whole thing and pretending like it never happened. Suddenly Mycroft started coughing hard again and before Sherlock could even register what he was doing, he was carrying Mycroft to the bathroom right as he started throwing up his breakfast. Maybe he wasn’t better yet after all. Mycroft whimpered and said softly, “Sh’lock…”

Sherlock shushed him. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. You’re just a little sick, nothing to get upset about.”

Mycroft took a big gulp of air and nodded slightly before starting to cough again. His body spasmed with every cough. “D’you think...I’ll get B-Belle sick?”

Sherlock rubbed his back awkwardly. “Don’t worry, I think she’ll be okay. You, on the other hand, are already sick, which puts you higher on the priorities list.”

Mycroft shuddered and threw up again. “Maybe...I shouldn’t’ve h-had all th-those pan...cakes, huh?”

“Probably wasn’t the best idea, though I did allow it,” Sherlock said absently as he knelt next to Mycroft and rubbed circles on his back. “So if you want to blame anyone, blame me.”

“I d-don’t want to-” Mycroft dry heaved. “I don’t want to blame anyone. I just want to feel better.”

Sherlock noticed Mycroft crying the tiniest bit and froze. He didn’t know how to comfort, he was usually the comforted, if comfort was needed at all. What were you supposed to do for a crying child to make them stop? Mycroft saw Sherlock looking and scowled, but sat down on the top of Sherlock’s legs regardless and buried his face in Sherlock’s shirt. Ah, yes, sometimes hugs will do the trick. Sherlock awkwardly wrapped his arms around Mycroft and patted the boy’s back. He found himself muttering sweet nothings to Mycroft under his breath. Oddly enough, this did seem to calm Mycroft down, and a minute later Sherlock loosened his grip and Mycroft took a step back like nothing had happened. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he muttered as he walked out.

Sherlock walked out behind him and saw him going back to Belle and presumably by his expression trying to find a way to apologize for being contagious and possibly getting her sick. If her laugh was anything to go by, she clearly didn’t see it as a problem. Mummy and Daddy Holmes looked at each other and nodded. “We think you’re going to be okay with Mikey, Sherlock,” Mummy said. “We’ll call you every once in a while, but I think he’s going to be just fine here.”

They left without another word. John looked over at Sherlock and smiled. “I never knew you had a knack for handling kids.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don’t.”

John shrugged. “Whether or not you know it, you have a knack.”

He went over to where Mycroft was nodding off and picked him up, bringing him over to Sherlock. Sherlock took him like someone who would take a bomb. “What am I supposed to do with him?”

Mycroft stirred a bit and tried to get loose from Sherlock’s grip unsuccessfully. “Sh’lock…” he muttered.

Sherlock looked down.

“Could...you maybe read some of King Arthur?”

Sherlock nodded and picked up the book before heading to his room. This was something he could do, he knew how to read a story and make it seem to come more alive, but it was best done without any unwanted company. He settled them both on the bed and started to read. “‘After wicked King Vortigern had first invited the Saxons to settle in Britain and help him to fight the Picts and Scots, the land was never long at peace. Although so much of it was covered with thick forests, much was also beautiful open country, with little villages and towns, country houses and cottages, as the Romans had left it not many years before...’” Sherlock paused and saw Mycroft was completely out of it laying across his lap. He laughed quietly. “Guess you were more tired than either of us thought, huh?” he stroked his brothers curls lightly and watched them back bounce in place. “And we really do have a lot in common, you just have to look back…”

When John checked on them an hour later they were both asleep. He laughed, and Belle looked in on them with a little I-knew-it smile. She looked up at John. “I’m hungry,” was all she said.

“Well, let me see what I can get for you,” he said, going back into the kitchen and praying the ham wasn’t actually bad.

“Merci beaucoup,” Belle said.

“Don’t mention it,” John said distractedly, not even noticing she had started speaking in French.

Belle for her part was surprised. Though, she supposed, she was bilingual when she was 5, it shouldn’t have been too much of a leap to assume that at some points she might slip into her mother tongue.

She just hoped this didn’t mean she was slipping from where she had worked so hard to get to.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, it's been a while, guys...sorry. I have so many things to work on and I don't have a plot for this thing, so...stuff happens, and I get distracted...and I don't write this as often as I probably should...ah, well. Here's an update anyway!

That night when all adult occupants of Baker Street were sleeping, Mycroft and Belle were sitting in the living room discussing plans. "Mycroft, listen, much as I like the sentiment, it's simply _not possible_ for you to work in your current state!"

"Well I can't very well leave it to my PA seeing as she's sitting across from me right now, barely a year older than I am!"

Belle scowled. " _You're_ the one who made me go out to check Baskerville! And keep quiet! We can't let anyone else here know I'm 'Anthea'!"

Mycroft huffed in annoyance. "You know as well as I do you're about the only person in the office who understands scientific jargon like what they use! How was I supposed to know that there was an off-the-record experiment going on?!"

"Rrrgh. I don't know! You just...well, you're _you!_ It's not inconceivable for you to know!"

"But I didn't, so stop blaming me for it!"

"Listen to yourself! You're even _acting_ like a 4 year old! Don't pretend you can't see it!"

"Shut up!"

Out of the shadows, a third voice drifted over them. "Tsk, tsk. Didn't anyone tell you it's past your bedtimes?"

Belle shot up and put herself between Mycroft and where she thought the voice was coming from. Then it came again, but from the opposite side of the room. "Oh, that won't work, sweetheart, you know it won't."

Mycroft got up and looked around for whoever was talking, and finding no-one, whispered, "I think he's not actually here. It's just speakers."

"Brilliant observation for one so young," the voice purred. "Can you tell me who I am, though?"

At this Mycroft faltered. He was trying to focus when the part of his brain he couldn't control was screaming _DangergetawayfindhelpdangerdangerDANGER_ as loud as it could.

Mycroft's silence made the voice laugh. "Aw, have I scared the poor boy? I'm not that bad, really. I could come over and shoe you just how nice I can be..."

"No!" Belle yelled, despite knowing that _someone_ would be bound to hear it. Reaching for Mycroft's hand she felt it was wet from where he had tried to hide his scared tears. "Don't you _dare_ come here!"

The voice tsked again. "So rude, Miss Belle. I should really do something about that...Here, let's see if _this_ teaches you anything."

There was a loud rumbling, the shattering of glass, and then only two children screaming for their lives to prove that any encounter had happened at all.


	10. Chapter 10

The rumbling was recorded officially as a freak earthquake, but everyone who had investigated it knew the unofficial cause was several packs of explosives set off in succession down a line made to look like a fault, but not one. It didn’t help settle Belle’s nerves, and Mycroft had given up on even remotely acting mature and was a ball of hysterics in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock didn’t bat an eye at this, and John would later claim it looked like he was never going to let anyone else get within a 3 feet radius of Mycroft, let alone let him down on the ground. Lestrade came up to where they all were sitting on the curb while the flat was being inspected to make sure that it was structurally sound. “Well, no one’s around to prove there was a bomber, but Belle does keep saying there was a voice to anyone who will listen. Any idea why that would be?”

“It wasn’t on the records,” Mycroft muttered.

“Sorry, what?” Lestrade asked.

“The experiment Sherlock used, it wasn’t on the records. Some scientists were lifting the chemicals to do their own, private experiment. I looked over the expense reports maybe a week ago. Nothing about this was mentioned.”

Sherlock stroked Mycroft’s hair and hushed him, muttering, “You’re in shock. I’m sure you just missed it,” before looking at Lestrade to silently say  _ I hope you got that down. _

Lestrade shook his head with a sigh and walked off. After a while, Mycroft fell asleep on Sherlock’s lap and they still weren’t allowed back in Baker Street. John asked quietly so as not to wake Mycroft, “What do you think this means for us?”

Sherlock stared into the distance. “I’m not sure. Presumably the scientists who altered Belle will want her back, and they will probably try and get to Mycroft if they find out what happened to him.”

John sighed. “This is insane.”

“I agree,” Sherlock muttered. “Where is Belle anyway? Didn’t you have her?”

“No,” John’s blood ran cold. “I thought you did.”

A scream could be heard from a nearby alley, and Mycroft bolted upright from where he was dozing. Not even wasting the breath to call out for Belle, he just got up and followed the scream, much to the protest of everyone around, but Mycroft would not be deterred. He slipped through grabbing hands and crawled under fallen structures until he reached the alley. What he saw in it made him freeze. Belle was being held by some man completely covered in shadow. When the scientist saw him, he smiled. “Ah, I was wondering when I’d get to see you.”

The man moved close, but Mycroft still couldn’t make out any distinctive features. He felt something slide over his neck in a mockery of a caress and he struggled just enough to rip the fingers off his neck. “Who are you?! What are you doing with Belle?!”

The man smiled. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m just using her for a more potent antidote. One that doesn’t require multiple admissions. I’ve found this can be quite a trial on the recipients, going through puberty again.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything to counter that, instead speaking exactly what he was thinking. “I know you from somewhere.”

“I’m sure you do,  _ Mikey _ ,” the nickname was laced with sarcasm, but the voice triggered something in the back of his mind. A tight hug, a clap on the back, an  _ I’ll be back soon, Mikey, don’t worry, _ from someone going somewhere, a long time ago. Someone who he wouldn’t hear from in years, and would wind up finding again when he was in a pinch with the law and wanted a hand. “I worked hard to make sure this would keep memories made by an adult mind.”

It hit. “A-Andy…”

“Don’t call me that! Only  _ family  _ gets to call me that! To you, I’m Andrew!”

Mycroft swallowed. “Andrew...you’re dead.”

Andrew laughed. “Yeah, you thought that, didn’t you? You’ve never understood the finer points of what I’d tell you. Blood can be  _ frozen  _ and  _ stored _ , and then  _ used later _ . In this case, I used it to make it look like I  _ died _ , even though  _ no body was found _ ,” he explained like he was speaking to a group of kids on a field trip. “Sherlock’s quite a pain, isn’t he? But he does have his uses, he saved me the trouble of coming to you myself. Until, of course,  _ now _ ,” he rolled his eyes and sighed. “But that’s what you get when you don’t have someone who actually understands anything about human nature trying to teach a kid how to act.” Andrew moved back further into the shadows until he couldn’t even be seen. “Farewell for now, Mikey. I have the feeling I’ll be seeing you again  _ real  _ soon.”

Mycroft growled, and finding no other way to express his anger in a not-immediately-violent way, he screamed, “I’M GOING TO KILL YOU ANDY! I’LL KILL YOU AND SKIN YOU AND USE YOU FOR A RUG! YOU’D BETTER RUN, YOU HEAR ME?!”

Sherlock ran into the alley and snatched Mycroft up from the ground and held him close. “What happened to make you say things like that?” he questioned.

Mycroft trembled from fury in Sherlock’s arms and muttered darkly, “The other one.”

“Who’s the other one?”

Mycroft shook his head.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “We’re not playing that game. Not tonight, not after how you just reacted. Who’s the other one?”

“Leave me alone.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “Fine.” He put Mycroft down. “Fine. You can tell me who the other one is, or you can stay out here.”

Mycroft hesitated, but still said nothing. He swore he’d never tell Sherlock. At first it was a promise to their parents, later it was because it would cause Sherlock too much pain. He couldn’t know that Andy was their brother. He  _ couldn’t _ . But, he couldn’t spend the night outside, Andy could decide to come back for him. He shuffled out of the alley and Sherlock looked over at him smug, thinking he’d won. Then Mycroft opened his mouth and yelled, “John! Sherlock isn’t letting me back in the house!”

Sherlock paled as John walked up behind him. He hit Sherlock on the back of the head, hard, and said, “Of course you’re allowed in the house, we can’t have you sleeping in the streets.”

“No one is allowed in the house!” a fireman yelled. “The structure is too unsound! There will need to be some renovations on the ceilings and walls to make sure there isn’t a collapse!”

John paused. “Okay, you’re not allowed in the house. But you’re allowed wherever we wind up staying.”

Mycroft smirked at Sherlock. Sherlock growled at him back.


	11. Chapter 11

John, Sherlock, and Mycroft had relocated to a run-down hotel, the best that they could do on such short notice. Sherlock was arguing with his parents over the phone, insisting that they were all right and really didn’t need to stay with anyone. John had fallen asleep at the table, using a laptop he had smuggled from the little cafe with free wi-fi downstairs to update the followers of his blog about the situation. Mycroft was some place between sleeping and awake on one of the two beds in the room, since John was asleep at the table meaning he wouldn’t have to use the little kid’s cot the manager had brought into the room “free of charge for someone so cute!” Mycroft sighed at the thought. Sometimes he really hated goldfish.

John stirred as Sherlock came over to the beds, fuming. “What’s wrong?”

“My parents,” Sherlock spat.

“Okay...is there anything new to that ‘issue’?” John continued.

“They want us to stay at their house.”

“No,” Mycroft said automatically.

“My reaction exactly, brother mine,” Sherlock sighed. “But they weren’t arguing.”

“But Belle--” Mycroft started.

“Has been kidnapped by someone you refuse to identify, and since I refuse to go around searching for ghosts with absolutely  _ nothing  _ to go on…” Sherlock shrugged. “There’s nothing to keep us in London until the flat has been fixed.”

Mycroft bit his lip and scowled. “I hope you know that I hate you too,” he muttered, and slid off the bed, walking to the door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked.

“Since you aren’t willing to look for Belle, I’ll do it myself,” Mycroft said with no room for debate. He had to jump a bit to reach the doorknob, but he opened it with minimal issues. “Maybe I’ll see you again one day, provided I’m not murdered in some back alley tonight,” he called over his shoulder.

He ducked behind the vending machine right next to their room and listened to Sherlock and John arguing inside. “Aren’t you going to go after him?” John.

“Why should I? He’ll come back when he’s hungry.” Sherlock. As apathetic as he ever was.

“Sherlock.”

“What? He’s being difficult.”

“We’re not talking about a grown adult here, Sherlock, as much as you’d like to believe we are. We’re talking about a child who wouldn’t last the night on the streets of London. Whether Mycroft is still an adult in his head or not isn’t relevant at this point. What  _ is  _ relevant is the fact that a 4-year-old body can only handle so much stress, and tonight, out of all the nights you could choose to pretend not to have a heart, is the worst one you could have chose.”

“I’ve given him the chance to let me know what’s going on. More than once. If he refuses to let me know about his personal life that’s his problem.”

“It’s  _ his  _ personal life, Sherlock. Not yours.”

“But it has to  _ do with mine, _ John! I’ve always been able to tell when he’s hiding something from me, and whatever happened tonight, he doesn’t want to tell me! But  _ our flat was nearly destroyed  _ because of whatever he’s keeping from me! I’m tired of the secrets, I want to know the  _ truth!” _

“Sherlock, give him time. He might not be comfortable sharing something like that with you!”

Mycroft wormed his way into the space between the wall and the vending machine just as Sherlock walked out of the room to see if Mycroft was still in sight. Finding no one, he scoffed and goes back into the hotel room, shutting the door and locking it. He heard some muffled shouting but couldn’t make out any of it. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, because he was safe and he didn’t have to be interrogated for the rest of the night.

Before he knew it he was woken up by someone knocking loudly on a door and grumbling. Mycroft tried to move around to answer it before he remembered he was stuck behind the vending machine. Of course by that point he had banged his head and made a very loud yelp, so there was no hiding from anyone now. Footsteps came up to the vending machine and a familiar voice asked, “Mycroft?”

Mycroft squirmed around until he could stick his head out from behind the machine. Over the night he had gotten quite cramped and it appeared he didn’t have full maneuverability like he did last night. “Inspector?”

Lestrade crouched down. “Mycroft...dare I ask why you’re stuck behind a vending machine?”

“Oh, Sherlock was interrogating me last night and threatening to go to our parents’ house if I didn’t tell him who kidnapped Belle last night, and he refused to go looking for her, so I said I’d go by myself, and I hid back here so Sherlock couldn’t find me if he went looking, and I guess I fell asleep. Why are you here?” he said all in one breath.

“I was looking for John and Sherlock. They don’t seem to be here. I’m a little surprised they left you by yourself.”

Mycroft tried not to feel too upset about what that meant. “Oh. They probably just forgot I was here. No big deal, I can go look for Belle at least, now.”

Lestrade bit his lip. “You really shouldn’t go out around London by yourself, not like this, Myc.”

Mycroft scowled. “Don’t call me Myc. It’s patronizing.”

Lestrade laughed. “I don’t see how Myc is patronizing, but okay. Do you want to go to the station with me? It’s not like you can get back into the hotel room, and we can give a description to all officers on duty about Belle and...well...you never really said who took her.”

Mycroft paled. “Sherlock can’t find out.”

“I’ll make sure that Sherlock won’t find out,” Lestrade assured. “Who kidnapped Belle?”

Mycroft took a deep breath and stared at his feet, not sure how to say what he was going to say. Eventually he just gave a name. “Andrew Sherrinford Jonathan Holmes.”

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “There’s  _ three  _ of you running about?”

“I thought that there were only two. Andy...Andy was supposed to be dead. He ran away when I was...7, I think. I didn’t hear from him again until...until I had my job and at that point it was because...he had done some things...gotten on the wrong side of the government...and I was supposed to track him down. He didn’t know that, though. He just knew he was in trouble and came to me asking for help...and it wound up being…” he took a deep breath and winced at the old memories. “A...a bloodbath between his people and mine. His body was never found, but everyone just assumed…” he shook his head.

“Sherlock doesn’t know about him. Never has. Mummy didn’t want to upset him as a kid and when I found him again I didn’t think he’d be able to handle the news. That’s why I was behind the vending machine this morning.”

“To keep Sherlock from finding out this way,” Lestrade nodded, following the chain of events.

Mycroft nodded. “But now he knows I’m keeping something really big from him, and he’s getting really mad that I won’t tell him, and it’s only a matter of time before he finds out…” Mycroft shook his head and his eyes got glassy. “I don’t want him to hate me even more for keeping this from him.”

“Hey, Sherlock doesn’t hate you,” Lestrade reprimanded.

Mycroft nodded. “He does! Why else does he try to get rid of me as soon as I come by, even when he’s not busy?”

Lestrade hesitated and then picked the boy up. “We’re going to go to the station, and you’re gonna give Belle’s description to Child Protective Services, and then we’ll go to my office and figure out how to have some fun you and me while I search around the Web for your brother, sound good?”

“You don’t have to treat me like a child,” Mycroft pouted.

“I’m not. I’m telling you our itinerary. Everyone needs some time to play games, no matter how old you are,” Lestrade reasoned.

Mycroft sighed. “Fine. But only if you promise not to call me Myc again.”

“Deal.”


End file.
